


To the Bitter End

by adramakhaleesi



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst, Battle, Dragons, F/M, Implied Romance, King Stannis, One Shot, Queen Daenerys, Stannerys, White Walkers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-12
Updated: 2018-04-12
Packaged: 2019-04-21 19:08:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14291472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/adramakhaleesi/pseuds/adramakhaleesi
Summary: Stannis and Daenerys come to know winter first, until winter comes to know them.





	To the Bitter End

The first time Daenerys sees snow, she thinks it’s ash. It flutters down from the sky like burnt bones and locks onto the ground, cold enough to burn. When she treks through the frozen wasteland beyond the wall, it freezes around her boots and sinks in through the lacing until her toes are frigid and stiff. The wind whips at her silver hair, and crimson colours her cheeks and ears and nose; suddenly, she is more red than white. This is how Daenerys comes to know winter, and this is where she first becomes acquainted with the monsters beyond the wall. 

What is an Iron Throne to a kingdom of dead men?

When Daenerys arrives at the wall on the back of Drogon, she meets a man more frigid than winter, and more unyielding than the very wind that whisked her there.

He sees me little more than a child, Dany thinks, as important as a flake of snow is to a storm.

Before long, it comes to fruition that he is the usurper’s brother, naming himself rightful king of her kingdom. Her cousin by blood, and yet in some sort of irony woven by the gods, he shares more blood with her than any of the nephews that took his name. Though the most immediate thoughts to take root inside her mind are how best to murder her kin, they dissipate as quickly as they form. When he speaks to her of the Great War alongside a woman as red and haunting as the jewel on her neck, she decides their war can wait. This is how Daenerys comes to know Stannis Baratheon.

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The dragons do not frighten Stannis. If he shows any amazement, Daenerys cannot see it. Instead, he tightens his sharp jaw and keeps his face decidedly neutral. Through ice-blue eyes, he watches the beasts as though they are dogs, and speaks to Ser Davos under his breath. What he says, Dany is unsure, but he never looks away from them, and they never look away from him. Her children are predatory and silent, all scale and muscle and full of fire and fury and livestock. For a moment, she ruminates over what they mean to do to him, but Stannis does not cower. She makes a step forward, once, twice, and then stills.

I am meant to serve him fire and blood, she thinks. And yet they do not think him an enemy. Why?

A fortnight in, Daenerys learns that he once had a wife, and that this wife died of ailment during their siege of Winterfell. Stannis does not show grievance in the sight of his men. Perhaps it is the gift of age and wisdom that allows him to be so collected and controlled, or the reality of the war that is to come and how necessary it is to put things into perspective. Daenerys thinks back to when she lost Drogo — though still a girl, her emotions had staked their claim deep in her heart. Inside, what she yearns for is home, and yet betrayals,

so 

many 

betrayals. 

Do we suffer the same? she wonders, admiring how he manages to remain so composed in the face of hopelessness.

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It is the night before the battle that she catches him in alone. She slips through the flaps of his tent quietly, though the wind howls with such ferocity that Daenerys has to fight to push through. He is sitting by the fire, nursing a cup of water kept warm by the flames. She is uneasy when she wakes, and she seeks clarity in his tent— another a dream gifted by Quaithe, another a prophecy that she has to unravel, paranoia and fear, laced by a collective desire for belonging. No matter how she searches for answers, she is lost. 

When she looks at Stannis, there is something in her eyes akin to compassion; both orphaned and alone and stubborn to a fault, with hearts steeled by betrayal and treachery. And like him, she is fuelled by a desire for justice, and bound by a duty to her people. Should she fall in battle on the morrow, at least she may die knowing the men of the north followed a noble leader — not just another mad king. 

A beat, a silence, and he addresses her stare with one of his own. Daenerys makes the first move, taking a seat beside him to nurse a cup of ale that feels far too strong on her tongue. They bathe in the silence, make no move to change it, until Dany finally asks about his accomplishments in battle, how he fought against the Lannisters who now sit on the throne, how the death of their brothers make them the last.

Duty.

Justice.

Shireen. 

These are the words that ring in her mind long after the conversation ends. A duty to their people, to their country, driven by the divine need for justice. What use are Kings and Queens if not to protect the ones who cannot protect themselves? What use is a parent who cannot protect their child?

Before she leaves to sleep, she asks if he thinks they will win.

“I have won against odds that many thought impossible to beat,” Stannis barks in laughter, so abrupt and consuming that Dany flinches. “Regardless of odds, I will fight until the flames devour me and then some. I suggest you do the same.”

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She sees their swollen corpses emerge from the horizon first. Amongst them is a landscape of devastated trees and white mountains of rock and snow and ice. In a hauntingly beautiful way, they blend together as a blue painting would, swirling with colours of turquoise and lapis lazuli.

They ride on the bodies of mammoths and spiders, and when they cry out, they make the most horrible noise, like animals crying out in pain. Crystal swords gleam and reflect, lambent like bones bleached by the sun, and as they scrape against armour, a high thin sound deafens her. Suddenly, it becomes cold, and all she can hear is the horrifying sounds of clashing bodies and languishing screams, drowning out the call of trumpets. 

Her mouth goes bone dry as she tightens her grip onto Drogon. “DRACARYS,” she calls out, but with each molten flame he spits out, she finds herself slipping off his spine. He roars fiercely in response, extending his neck out and flapping his wings like a great beast blanketing the world in black death. It’s a rush — not exhilarating, but terrifying. 

Below, great mammoths catch fire and tip over into snow-covered ice, cracking and sinking into the sheet below them. She can see a figure unsheathing a flaming sword and swinging at all and any in his path, as cavalry breaks through the lines and shreds through the dead, all iron and ice and resolve. Arrows of obsidian fly over head and pierce at the Others until they explode into shreds of broken glass. 

In a storm of angry white, tongues of flame burst through clouds and move through a flashing white sky, bathing the horizons in shades of greens, reds, and yellows. The stench of death and smoke swirl through a frozen field in a symphony of death, accompanied by a melody of strangled war-cries. At first, Daenerys cannot make out the words they cry out, but as she rains hell over an army of dead men, she can hear them call out for their king: STANNIS!

Viserion and Rhaegal shadow over his armies and breathe molten fire on all and any, consumed by the chaos of destruction. Even she can no longer tell foe from friend, lost in a blizzard of ash. It is hell, but the connection she shares with Drogon remains intact. He remembers the whip and obeys her, all while his winged kin fly free and uncontrolled. The sound of dragons fill the air once more, and a red comet bleeds over the horizon.

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The battle is over. It is cold to the bone, and naught helps. There is nothing surrounding them but snow and ash and death, no water nor food to bring them sustenance. Troops huddle by fire and wheeze and cough and puke their biles out unto the snow. Bloody blades and blackened arrows pierce through the pale flesh of the dead and living alike. The devastation of war is plain enough on this field of hell, and inside their tent, the trio seems just as dismal. The three of them linger over over a makeshift table, exchanging little but a glance for the first few minutes. 

There is something strange and finite about being close to death. They could fend them off from destroying the wall, but the Others fostered an army large enough to obliterate all of Westeros. There is a silent understanding between the three of them that the Lady Melisandre was correct: this Great War would last for years, and by default, the three would be allies. But now, as she lifts her head to look between the two, she can feel affections blossom for them like a blue rose growing from a chink of ice.

“The dragon must have three heads,” Quaithe whispers. “The dragons know. Do you?”

Stannis suddenly meets her eyes, direct and dutiful and determined.

She squares her shoulders and decides to break the silence first: “You say that was but a small fraction of their army?”

Jon Snow merely nods, pensive and brooding and brewing with unease.

“It will do us little good to stay here then,” Stannis proclaims as though it is law, adjusting the cloak around his neck. “We move forward.” 

We.

Daenerys casts him a smile; no, not quite a smile, but something akin to it — amusement mayhaps, for an unlikely ally. Indeed, winter would come to know them.


End file.
